Guilty Pleasure
by thesuperblue
Summary: Mycroft has a shameful secret.


Donbass

South Sudan

Central Africa

War – death – misery – corruption.

Mycroft Holmes sighed and ran his perfectly manicured hands down his face, only to lean one cheek against his right index finger. He placed the urgent memos aside.

Onto the next unfortunate order of business...

Atop the stack of mail to his right, sitting precariously upon the oiled cherry Partner's desk, a few glossy invitations beckoned – promising a respite from the ills of the world.

Mycroft crossed one elegantly long leg over another, straightened his waistcoat with a sigh and began going through the pile.

Barack Obama, _that_ should be interesting, he placed it in a darkly felted Inbox in the upper right corner of the desk.

Tony Abbott? But didn't he just see the man last month? That roast duck was offensive to his fine gustatory sensibilities (not to mention the horrendously long flight). Into the polished brass rubbish bin it went.

Stephen Harper, ah yes… a lovely, pleasant man, with a Beatles collection to rival his own. Mycroft was promised prime seating at the next Toronto Maple Leafs game he was able to attend. He placed this also in the Inbox.

Kim Kardash – Kim Kardashian? Who on God's green earth was _that? _He tossed the garish invitation into the rubbish bin with a derisive sniff.

That being done, he pulled on his cuffs (linked with oval platinum and mother-of-pearl inlays), smoothing his starched white shirt while looking about his desk curiously. He could have sworn he'd placed it under the invitations. He didn't exactly want anyone to know it was there – it was his guilty pleasure after all.

Just then an unexpected long and darkly furred arm made its way around his neck, slowly coming to rest a warm hand across the front of his shirt.

Mycroft allowed a ghost of a smile to touch upon his primly pursed lips.

"You're up early, love. I thought even the British Government got a day off once in a while?" Lestrade's gruff voice wisped at the back of his earlobe, heating the skin and bringing with it a masculine musk that made even Mycroft Holmes feel weak at the knees.

"Responsibilities, Gregory." He replied with a hint of disdain, though they both knew it was all for show. It was only a half hour ago Mycroft had left their tousled bed, reverently tracing one elegant hand down the positively unholy dip between the swell of Lestrade's buttocks. It was with great regret that he had to leave, that there was business waiting to attend to.

Lestrade's hand splayed across Mycroft's chest, his first and index fingers dipping below his waistcoat and fiddling with the mother of pearl buttons that so prudishly clasped his shirt closed, hiding his lover's chest from his hot, wandering touch.

Placing a sweet, wet kiss to the arc of Mycroft's jaw, Lestrade smiled. "You seemed distracted, were you looking for something?"

Mycroft leant his head to the side just so, enjoying his detective's attentions.

"No. No – I was only -"

"Because really Mr. Holmes, the Daily Mail?"

Mycroft's frowned abruptly, and he turned swiftly in his lushly upholstered chair. Lestrade removed his right hand from its wandering and used it, along with his left, to noisily open the most current copy of the Daily Mail.

The British Government flushed a ruddy hue, not because his husband had found out his most ridiculous (and shameful) dirty secret, but because he appeared to be quite starkers and holding the paper just in front of the lower half of his body.

Greg only smiled that devastatingly crooked half-grin of his and rustled the paper, turning round to slowly saunter out of the study. Mycroft was momentarily fascinated by the alternating dimples of each arse cheek as he took his steps languidly, one by one, eventually turning towards the bedroom and out of sight.

But not before -

"Oh look Myc, Posh and Becks installed air-con in their mansion. Stop the bloody presses!"

Mycroft Holmes narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips with a new found purpose. Gently, he unfastened his priceless cufflinks and then began on his waistcoat, standing and kicking the antique Morel and Seddon chair out of his way.

He _would_ have his Daily Mail – and then he would have his husband.


End file.
